


Primitive

by BeauMenteur



Category: Shingeki no Kyojin | Attack on Titan
Genre: F/M, Levi/Mikasa - Freeform, levikasa, rivamika
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-04-05
Updated: 2014-04-05
Packaged: 2018-01-18 07:13:40
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,495
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1419310
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BeauMenteur/pseuds/BeauMenteur
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He kissed her, and she knew it wasn't right, but she let it happen. He undressed her. He promised her warmth that, while impermanent, was tangible and she found solace in that.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Primitive

He kissed her, and she knew it wasn't right, but she let it happen. He undressed her. He promised her warmth that, while impermanent, was tangible and she found solace in that.

She couldn't recall when these trysts—these arrangements of meeting and acting so wrongly, so volatilely and riotously—had begun. She could only remember feeling so raw and wretched at the time that she sought any way to dispel these emotions, and he had welcomed her, not quite with open arms but with an open mind that had seemed as equally tormented.

They were symbiotic, feeding off of the moans and the aches of one another like vermin. He would claw at her scarred skin, bruise her and bite her and leave her so drained. He was not gentle; she did not wish for him to be.

She only wished to feel fullness in her otherwise empty person.

He, unlike her, could remember the first time she had knocked on his door, the night after returning from their 57th expedition beyond the walls. The mission had been brutal; he had lost many of his comrades, soldiers, and friends.

He could recall her clumsy, begrudging "Thank you, Corporal," for having saved her that day. In response, he had stood, pushed her to the wall, and kissed her. It was an act of anger, of impulse out of mourning for his companions and pity for himself. It was the beginning of their synergetic encounters. She kissed him back.

That was the first night they had sex, and it was all but beautiful—combative, rushed, even emotional, but not beautiful.

In the following weeks, they had avoided each other. They shared a silent agreement that what had taken place was inappropriate, an act that should not have transpired between a captain and his subordinate. The time was awkward, tense, but nonetheless bearable and they continued this way for nearly a month.

However, one night after dinner, he had watched as her adoptive brother had snapped at her for showing some concern for his wellbeing. She had apologized—"Eren, I'm sorry I bothered you,"—but he had grown annoyed and left her there. She had seemed so distraught, so ashamed.

He thought she was trivial for tormenting herself over the boy.

He had waited until the other members of the Survey Corps had slowly dwindled from the dining room before approaching her. She had looked up at him with dark eyes through the bangs of her hair, and he had returned the gaze. He did not smile, he did not blink, he did not falter. He only stated, matter-of-factly, "You are a fool."

That night, he had taken her on the dining room table. He was uncaring of the splintering wood that drilled into her back, she paid no mind to the blood that dripped from his shoulder blades as she bore into them with her fingernails.

After that time, it had become a weekly affair, and then a nightly. They eventually lost count of all the times they had sought each other out for the sole purpose of rough, detached sex.

They each desired an escape from the evils which plagued their minds. The Titans, the innumerable deaths, the unreciprocated affection—none of this mattered when they would eventually find themselves a mess of limbs, tangled in the sweat-soaked sheets of his bed. She would never stay long after, and they would not acknowledge their actions until the next time they found themselves repeating them.

They were never passionate with one another; there were never any gentle caresses or adoring kisses or quixotic foreplay involved in their encounters. The way in which they performed was simple—meet, fuck, feel better for a few moments, and move on. They did not care for the idealistic niceties of the matter. They did what they did for purely selfish reasons.

He wanted distraction from the mental images of their failed expeditions, the broken and bloodied bodies of those he once fought alongside. She sought diversion from the harsh words of the one person in this world she truly cared for and loved, his ignorance of her and the feelings he did not counter.

Even in her turns of pleasure, her mind always seemed elsewhere. He would notice this—it was painstakingly obvious—and he would often find himself demanding in the middle of intercourse, "Stop thinking about Eren."

She would argue this notion, "I'm not," and they would continue as before, disconnected but more contented with their activities than without.

This night was like any other; the same routine, the same inauspicious conversation falling upon their ears as well as whines and whimpers.

At eight-thirty—four hours since training had concluded and two hours after dinner—she had knocked on the door to his bedroom, hasty and demanding, whispering to him punitively through the wooden slab. "Corporal Levi, open the door, now." He did not immediately answer; she knocked again. "Let me in Corporal—"

He eventually did let her in, with a fluid opening of the door and a glower that she knew was fully projected to make her feel insignificant. He swore at her quietly under his breath, "Are you kidding me? What's with this knocking shit? Get out, Ackerman," and she faintly rolled her eyes as she entered the room. His taciturn salutation was simply a guise, she knew; he refused to appear vulnerable—not to her, not even to himself.

He was shirtless, standing in the doorway as he callously but rather expectantly watched her move. She, of course, noticed his partial nakedness just as she had countless times before. Like any other soldier who was acquainted with him, she could not deny the impressiveness of his build, the grandeur of his broad chest and muscles. However, unlike most she did not find excitement or arousal in the view. When she observed, she could only be reminded of insipid stone walls. She wasn't sure why.

No words were exchanged then; he closed the door as she diplomatically sat on his bed and began to undress. She shrugged her beige jacket from her narrow shoulders and quickly but calmly fumbled with the buttons on her white oxford shirt. She paid him no attention as he strode over lithely, sat adjacent to her on the mattress, and waited irascibly.

It tormented him to sit and watch the scuffle taking place between the fabric and her fingertips. She moved so leisurely, so tantalizingly, her slender hands dancing with the cloth. She did not look up as she made slow of the task.

It was in no way charming to watch her; after only a few moments he found himself bored and impose his assistance upon her, albeit selfishly so. He extended his reach towards her waist and began to yank at the buckles of her pants. She did not react and continued meddling with her own top. His brow furrowed slightly while he tugged at the leather.

"Ackerman," he was agitated, "would you move a little faster?" She did not look up at him, her composed expression did not falter, her pace did not quicken. "It's not as if I'm in any hurry to pleasure you, Corporal," she deadpanned; in response he made a forceful breathing sound through his nostrils, taunting her with subtle laughter. "I would concede," he said almost pitifully, "if only I were the sole person benefitting from this."

She began to lift her head, daring to attempt eye contact with him, but tentatively lowered it once more. She muttered under her breath, "This isn't a concern of mine, Corporal;" her words were a blatant half-truth. She knew she would find her release—the shrewdly false sense of satisfaction—soon enough, it did not faze her if it was moments later, or minutes later, or even hours later. She of course did want to feel the intense gratification that she had grown so accustomed to as of late—she also knew that as soon as it was over, she had to resort to facing the depressive condition of the outside world once again.

She did not seek a short-dwelling enraptured state that would transpire to wretchedness only presently after. She wanted to extend her own contentment, her own sensuality—even if that required inconsiderately postponing his in the process.

He did not acknowledge her subtle lie as he guided the belt from around her waist, and moments later she finished unfastening the last button on her shirt. She tugged the garment off of her torso and down her arms; it dropped to the mattress beside her, along with her jacket. She remained in her white pants and a dowdy, threadbare black brassiere. He eyes gravitated downward to stare at her chest.

It was not a sight he was taken aback by, as he had witnessed it many times prior. He knew now that she owned two bras; this black one, and a white one that was equally as worn and frayed from numerous hours of training and Titan combat. He judged from the indentations always left in her skin by the elastic that the undergarments were too small; she had most likely owned these for the majority of her teenage life.

The skin on her torso—across her ribs, her sternum, upwards of her breasts towards her shoulders—was littered with bruises. Some were older, weeks old possibly, and some were fresh. He could not dictate how each one had journeyed onto her flesh; many were likely from fighting, others from using the maneuver gear. The rest, he grasped, had to have been a result of his own actions. The way he bit and sucked her skin, the way he grabbed it with rough hands, pinched, squeezed.

His eyes shifted from her body to her face once more, and he reached his arms behind her, barely holding her, as he undid the clasp of her bra.

The moment was far from romantic or intimate; the act was more businesslike than sexual and his demeanor did not change as she slithered the straps down her arms. It fell from her upper body and onto her lap.

Equable, stoic as if the girl before him was not baring her breasts, he guided one hand forward and placed it soberly on her cheek. His fingers absentmindedly twirling strands of her raven-colored hair, he brought his face close to hers, stopping just before their lips touched. She remained still, the feathery breath from his nostrils ghosting her upper lip.

He closed his eyes, he breathed in the almost nonexistent aroma of the wash she had used to bathe. All soldiers used the same soap, himself included, but on her it was insipid, indistinct. The subtle scent seemed to lack the cleanliness it was meant to impose—it nauseated him. He breathed her in once more.

His lips parted, but he vacillated until her eyes had closed to kiss her. When she submitted to his unspoken bid, his mouth was immediately upon hers, hungrily. His kisses did not love or warm her; they were innate, feral. He tasted her tongue, held her lower lip between his teeth. His hand, which had so casually twirled her locks only moments before, groped the back of her hair causing strain in her scalp.

For nearly a minute, she was unresponsive to his contact. She sat, motionless, neither returning his kiss nor opposing it. It was only when he had released her hair, removed his mouth from hers with just the slightest sense of appalled fascination, rashly began to undo his own belt, that her own hands coasted to his face, grabbing it and plunging against him once more. Caught off guard by her sudden change in demeanor, he stopped tugging at his belt.

He pulled away from her and stared at her blankly. She stared in return, struggling not to display confusion as to why he had broken off their kiss for a second time. Mild muddle waved over her features—her eyebrows sparsely furrowed, her lips opened scantly as if she was prepared to question him—and he observed her. His pale eyes scanned her facial attributes. Her skin was young, unmarred, but displayed evidence of constant stress, dark circles under her eyes, light wrinkles as a result of scowling. Her eyes—dark, like her personality, like her general outlook on the world. Her lips were dry and chapped, showing that she trained too much and hydrated too little; however they were still rosy and strangely inviting.

Many would claim her to be beautiful; he would not allow himself to concur. Such a term was too personal, too sentimental. She was attractive, striking even, with her unusual features and rare genetics, but his assessment of her was not so kind as to admit beauty.

He sat on the mattress, watching her, catching his breath; he realized then that the kiss had somewhat drained him.

Within the next few seconds he was on top of her, straddling her legs as she lay stunned beneath him. Their lips fell against each other once more, clashing restlessly. His lips ground against hers, his tongue prying past teeth as she languidly tangled with him. Her body bearing into the mattress under his weight, she felt him place his hands gently on her stomach and snake them upwards towards her breasts. She was not taken aback when he gripped her skin, pressing gently, his nails burrowing into her sparingly, but she gasped against his open mouth.

The delicate reaction made his skin crawl. He wanted to hear it again, to absorb it, to replay it over and over like a spinning record against the matter of his brain. He removed his hands from her breasts and brought them to his pants, focusing on his belt once more as she continued to ravage his mouth. She wrapped her arms around his neck abrasively; he pulled the leather restraint from his waist and casted it to the ground.

Suddenly, he was on his back; she had pushed him off of her and now sat in between his thighs, her arms on either side of his waist. She respired heavily as she eyed him, speculating if he was going to move, or allow her to make the next decision.

For a moment she thought he was about to reach for her—she instantly gripped him by the hem of his pants, tearing at the buttons and exposing his undergarments. His heartbeat quickened but he persisted to watch her, showing no enthusiasm, even as she yanked his pants past his hipbones and wrapped her hand around his erect penis.

Her palm was dry and coarse, nearly painful as she dragged her hand up and down, up and down, up and down his length. The sensation was underwhelming. She replaced her hand with her mouth. He was growing bored and increasingly dissatisfied. An inhibited moan writhed against the back of his throat and past his lips.

She harassed him with her tongue, the insides of her cheeks, the very tips of her teeth that she dared to lightly drag against his skin. Each time he let forth a pleasured sound or his body trembled against the feeling of her mouth, she found herself moving faster, sucking unrestrainedly and indulging him more than she had already. His mind was swimming one moment and drowning the next, and he was unable to form coherent thoughts.

He peered down at her through mist and clouds. She seemed languid, not nearly as enticing as his feelings lead him to believe.

Without much else thought, he realized he was now taking initiative, blending his hands with her soft hair and yanking her upward so her lips could fuse with his again. She was surprised, but not displeased, allowing him to fondle her breasts while he kissed her. His thumb swirled around her nipple and her skin chilled under his touch.

There was an odd, rare sense of serenity in this moment; their kiss volatile, yet his caresses unusually temperate and placid. She relished this tranquility for a short moment. It was almost as though she was with a different person, someone amorous, someone considerate, if only for a few seconds. She closed her eyes. She could picture him—Eren—there, before her, brown hair tousled and green eyes clouded. She imagined his lips against hers, his naked torso; her heart vied faster.

He watched her—her expression of contentment, enamored—and her lack of attention angered him somehow. He wasn't sure why. Against her lips, against her teeth and tongue, he muttered gruffly, "Stop thinking about Eren."

Her eyes remained closed, her voice practically a lovestricken sigh, she replied, "I'm not."

One hand trailed from her breasts to dance with the buttons of her slacks. They fell apart without poise.

His fingertips dipped lower, splaying themselves against her skin as they sought particular warmth. When they reached further, wrestling past her underwear and tufts of thin, coarse hair, he did not recess before bearing into her, massaging the pads of his fingers against her clitoris roughly. She gasped, both out of sudden pleasure and mild discomfort, but quickly adapted to the aggressive ministrations.

She panted as he teased her, her mind relinquished of all thoughts besides those of frenzy. As he kneaded her nerves, he dipped the tips of his limbs in and out of her, and she began to moan. She wished to suppress her sounds, to not give him the satisfaction of knowing he caused her to feel so boundless, but they surged past her lips before she could gather.

He liked to listen to her, although he would not admit it. It made him feel powerful, possessive, as if he had broken her barriers and enraptured her. She—who was always so nonchalant and impassive—had been reduced to a moaning, trembling state in his bed and he loved it.

"Say my name." It was a curt demand against her open mouth. He glared resolutely at her, his fingers laboring against her still as she forced her own eyes open, her face contorted into delectation and confusion. She struggled to form articulate words through fits of pleasure. "W-what?"

"Say my name, Ackerman." He pulled his face away from hers as he waited for her to comply, "Show me that you want me."

Her eyes fell shut once more and his strokes grew rougher and her song grew louder, ringing against his ears and to him it was like a symphony. He listened as she struggled to speak, words garbled in the back of her throat, drowning in her own cries and whimpers. Eventually, her eyes flew open again and connected with his and against a moan, so sweet and so painfully sensual, she forced herself to speak. "No," she pressed out, "no, I don't."

He was angry—he removed his hand from her and she fell back against the mattress, exasperated. She tried and failed to catch her breath, and he pulled her pants down her legs, exposing her completely and discarding the garment on the ground.

Her legs were long, slender, bruised; he pried them apart and delved his face between them, and she screamed as he did so, gripping the sheets of the mattress with so much energy she thought they would tear. He found her clitoris once more, bombarding it with his tongue and teeth. He seemed to abandon all grace and civility as he licked and prodded; her cries only motivated his regression into ferociousness. He lapped at her flesh. She found herself deteriorating as yen overtook her being.

"I hate you." She wasn't sure why she suddenly said this, how she possibly managed to force it out through her wines, if he even heard her or understood. He had; he didn't acknowledge it.

She did hate him—she hated everything about him. She hated his temper, his violent habits, the way he treated his subordinates. She hated how such a small man dared to act to tall and mighty and superior to all. She hated his obsession with cleaning, as if his hands were not dirtied with blood. She hated that he was not Eren, and would never be, and she hated that he used her and let her use him, too.

She also knew that he hated her. Her strength that rivaled his own, her defiance, even her height. He hated the love she held for her adoptive brother; he hated to what lengths she would go to protect the boy. He hated her smile because he would never be the means for it.

He hadn't realized that he had penetrated her; he was moving in and out of her at a brutal pace.

He hated the way she came to his room in heat, begging for release, and yet credited him for none of it. He hated that she was incapable of finding happiness anywhere else.

He thrust into her, the sound of bare skin slapping against bare skin infiltrating his ears. His thumb toyed with her while his other hand was bound to her breast. He watched her writhe and cringe beneath him and his arousal intensified—he became even faster, even rougher. His hipbones bore into her thighs, his fingernails raked her flesh. She looked so stirred, almost joyful.

"You are thinking about him." He stated this sternly, more observant than elsewise, and she moved her head to make eye contact with him. Under the coldness of his stare, she shook her head.

He thrust into her, more violently than before and she released a screaming moan. She moved her hands to cover her mouth and he continued his vehement drives. When each one prompted a response, it would encourage him further and he would carry on, rougher each time.

"Slow down," she spoke breathlessly through her fingers, "someone could hear."

He did not slow down. "You're right," he alleged, "for all we know, Eren could be outside my door now, listening." He grew more frantic.

She wailed against her own hand and he almost laughed. "Wouldn't that make you happy?" he asked her, almost spitefully. Her hand dropped from her face and gripped the blankets below her. "Corporal! It wouldn't…" she gasped and another cry tore out of her, "Slow down!"

She was screaming as she reached her orgasm, and he could hear the echo of her heart beating against her chest. He continued plunging in and out of her, at the same vicious pace.

"Tell me, Ackerman," he whispered, struggling to keep his voice level and calm as she tightened around him, sending waves of carnality through his body, "tell me, could he ever make you feel like this? Could he ever make you scream?" She was unable to answer, and he continued to question her. "Would you ever let him touch you like this?"

To stress his point, he reached for her breast and fiercely grasped, eliciting another moan from the girl. She knew he was taunting her, and she ignored his interrogations. His cold eyes closed and his stoical expression waned, his breathing coarse and uneven. "Tell me, how often do you pretend that I'm him, fucking you?"

Despite the shameless circumstance she was in, a blush spilled over her face. She turned away from him. He was awful to her; he showed her no mercy in humiliating her and making her feel lesser.

Not once halting his insertions, he dipped his head to her collarbone and began to bite her there. She gasped, surprised and yet lascivious to his lips. He began to suck on her sensitive skin, and she cried out to no one in particular. After a few moments however, she began to attempt to pull away from him. "If you leave a mark," she respired, "someone will see…"

She felt him smirk against her skin. "Who would see? Eren?"

His sarcastic question pained her, but she knew that he was right. Defeated, and yet enflamed with a strange rage for the man whose body was welded with hers, she joined him in his movements, grinding against his body with as equal force as he pounded into hers.

After this, they were silent. He did not question her any more, and she suppressed her moans. She wanted to yell at him, to tell him what a pathetic man he was and that if he truly were any better than her he would not have been fucking her at that moment. That night, he took her more roughly than he ever had before, knowing that she needed to release her pent-up anger and emotions that she felt not only about Eren, but for him, too.

He made her miserable so that she could release such misery back upon him.

When they had both finished—each feeling nothing more than heated and spent—she had stood, dressed, made an attempt to tame her disheveled hair, just as she did every time they met like this. He watched the arousal, the pleasure, the excitement abandon her eyes as she came down from her high. It reminded him of a black hole consuming an already dim star. He looked away.

She stood watching him for a moment as he lay back in his bed, his hands behind his head and staring at the ceiling boredly. She was admittedly hesitant to leave; she always was. She couldn't deny her want for more, for else, to feel something in this arrangement other than release and succor. But, such was impossible, and allowing him to bed her each night would change nothing about the world than their individual temporary state of mind.

Forked between the bed and the pathway to his bedroom door, she spoke.

"Corporal Levi, should I stay here?"

She would ask this every time, even though the answer never did change.

He closed his eyes, trying to recapture the state of euphoria he had felt only moments before, not wanting to reveal that his thoughts were already declining just as hers were.

"Do as you please, Mikasa."

No, she did not know what really pleased her. He kissed her, and she knew it wasn't right, but she let it happen because it pleased her. He undressed her and it pleased her. He promised her warmth that, while impermanent, was tangible and she found solace in that and it pleased her more than anything outside of this room could.

And yet, she wanted Eren to please her. She wanted so much to find lasting warmth in him rather than a false hope in between the bedsheets of her superior officer, who must have wanted something more pleasing as well, with more depth and more meaning than whatever this was.

This was nothing more than two cruel, merciless, primitive beings finding refuge from the even crueler, even more merciless world for a few hours each night.

The door closed gently behind her as she left.

**Author's Note:**

> (Also posted on FF.net under Beau Menteur)


End file.
